Giving In
by Goddess-of-the-Night04
Summary: Sherlock and John attend the wedding of Greg and Molly. They both get bored and think of interesting (but very false) backstories for the saints in the stained glass windows before moving on to the reception where everyone keeps assuming they're a couple.


**Disclaimer:** I own no part of the BBC Sherlock universe, nor am I making any profits off of this work. Though I wish I were.

 **A/N:** No offense is meant with the saint things in the beginning. Honestly, this story came to me in a church much as I describe, where St. Margarita is displayed in a window (among other saints). She was my muse this time around.

* * *

They're sitting in a very old, small stone church with wooden pews and stained glass windows. They aren't church people - what with Sherlock being too scientifically minded and John having fought in a war - but weddings are the exception. Or so John tells Sherlock.

They're seated on the groom's side of the church; they could have sat on either, but Greg's side is less full than Molly's. John purposefully chose a pew that's a few rows behind the rest of the crowd so that when Sherlock inevitably grows bored and starts bemoaning the fact or deducing people, at least he won't bother anyone else too much. Like a ruddy child.

In a weird twist of fate, however, John nearly arrives at a feeling of boredom before Sherlock does this time around.

"Bored," Sherlock turns his face to the right, leaning in to his friend slightly, to mutter the word with disdain.

"God, yes," John whispers in agreement, "this Catholic service is taking forever."

Sherlock looks surprised that John is bored. Romance is his area, after all; shouldn't a wedding be the epitome of entertainment for someone like that? But then, he reminds himself, the last wedding either of them were at was John's wedding to Mary. Still a bit of a sore subject to this day, nearly two years since everything shook out.

"I could deduce people to pass the time," Sherlock offers quietly with a smirk, knowing John will not let him.

John snorts, "No, best not in case anyone hears you," he states, noticing the few subtle looks they've already garnered thanks to their whispered conversation. He just can't bring himself to care if they're disturbed by them; he genuinely needs a distraction this very moment, "Do the saints instead," he offers, nodding towards some of the stained glass windows, each containing the likeness and name of a different saint.

"I don't think you truly understand what it is that I do when I deduce," Sherlock informs him seriously with a glower, "All I have is a name and what may or may not be an accurate depiction of someone who may or may not have ever existed."

"Fine, _I'll_ deduce them," John smiles, looking at the wall of windows to their left, starting at the back nearest the entrance, "St. Margarita. Clearly the Patron Saint of Good Times and Alcohol."

Sherlock can't help the laugh that escapes him at the absurdly random deduction. They get quite a few heads turning their direction - including an eye roll from Greg - and both try to stop smiling long enough for their apology to at least appear sincere. They don't succeed.

"Ok, next," John finally whispers again, finding the next one to the right, "St. Alto. She was always coming second to St. Soprano.

St. Fructus - The Patron Saint of Corn Syrup."

Sherlock ducks his head down and to the right, trying to keep his next laugh in, but displaying his pleased smile to John.

"St. Innocent," John continues with a huge smile on his face, enjoying being the cause for the genuine smile that graces Sherlock's features, "Ironically he was a man-whore. And a druggy," he has to squint to see the last one on the wall, "St…Landulf? Little-known brother to Gandalf the Wizard."

"John," Sherlock gasps, clearly struggling to keep his voice at a low level past his mirth, "Please stop."

"No, I'm having fun now, aren't you?" John asks with genuine glee.

"A little too much for having to remain quiet," he admits, locking eyes with his friend who finally sees the tears in his eyes from holding his laughter in.

John smiles widely at him before moving on to the right side of the church, "St. Illuminatus - the founder of the Illuminati conspiracy. Interesting that he holds such a place of high honor."

Sherlock merely rolls his eyes, still fighting a smile.

"St. Hippolytus - Patron Saint of Hippos and Platypuses."

Sherlock snorts and ducks his head once more, hiding his smile from all but John. John smirks in triumph even as a few heads turn in their direction again.

"St. Agrecius - Patron Saint of All Things Atrocious."

"I think you're mixing up Agrecius and egregious."

John waves his hand unconcernedly, "Same thing."

"They're really not," Sherlock negates as he shakes his head affectionately.

"Ah, St. Decorosus," John moves on instead, "Patron Saint of Interior Design," he points out while nodding his head sagely.

The last window catches John off guard so much that the smile falls from his face as the air is stolen from his lungs.

"What, no witty words for St. John Lockwood?" Sherlock needles seriously, smile also gone from his features.

They stare intently in to each other's eyes, as if trying to read the other's very soul, before they're broken from their trance by the words "You may now kiss the bride" followed by raucous clapping from the crowd. They join the clapping merely on instinct.

At the reception, they are sat at a round table with select members of New Scotland Yard: Anderson and his wife Nancy, Sally and her boyfriend Paul, the Chief Inspector and his wife Rebecca, and Dimmock and his girlfriend Trixie. Sherlock and John have never met any of the significant others of the Yarders they know, but they seem nice enough.

"So what is it that you two do, exactly?" Paul asks Sherlock and John kindly, genuinely curious, as the table eats their food. He seems far too nice to be dating Sally.

"Freak thinks he's some sort of proper genius," Sally sneers, "and Sidekick over there thinks Freak hung the moon."

Sherlock's eyes flash in anger as he literally moves forward and takes a deep breath in, ready to let the entire table know about the illicit history between Sally and Anderson. John quickly places his left hand on Sherlock's lower right thigh below the table and leans in to him while whispering "Sherlock" in a warning tone.

Sherlock exhales the breath through his nose as he moves back in his chair once more, a pout on his lips. He's still glaring at Sally when he opens his mouth again, but John squeezes his leg again and says, "Don't."

Sherlock closes his mouth with a quiet grumble of discontent. A few seconds later he opens his mouth a third time, but John squeezes his leg yet harder and says, "Stop it now."

Sherlock turns his glare on John who meets the angry gaze without fear or hesitation.

One of the women clears her throat and kindly asks, "So, how long have you two been together?"

Both men turn to face Trixie with twin looks of shock on their faces. She blushes.

"We're not together," Sherlock says calmly with a shake of his head, the words seeming to burn John as he finally removes his hand from Sherlock's leg.

"Oh," she blushes further in embarrassment, "I just assumed from your interactions and…" she trails off, gesturing to their outfits.

Sherlock and John look down at their suits reflexively, though they already know full well what they look like; they had had an argument about them when Sherlock first brought them home.

* * *

 _A_ _few days prior:_

 _Sherlock walked in to the flat primly holding two garment bags in his right hand._

 _"What are those?" John asked from his chair, closing his book on his finger to mark his place._

 _"Our suits," he said, hanging them over the door and plopping down on the couch. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, as if his quick jaunt out had exhausted him._

 _"For the wedding?"_

 _Sherlock had lifted his head and peaked just one eye open, "Yes," he said slowly, as though John wouldn't be able to comprehend it otherwise, "What else do we require suits for?"_

 _"Just checking, you berk," John retorted with less heat than he had intended. They sat in silence for four minutes before John spoke up again, "I don't remember asking you to arrange a suit for me; I have_ _one already."_

 _Sherlock lifted his head again with a suffering sigh, "You only technically own a suit because some cloth has a label on it that claims to be one," John's eyes had narrowed, "Honestly, I thought you_ like _Greg and Molly."_

 _"I do," he said, uncertain what that had got to do with anything._

 _"Then you will wear the suit I just picked up for you."_

 _John spent another two minutes grinding his teeth together, reminding himself that – despite his being a dick about it – this was a very thoughtful thing for Sherlock to have done._

 _"Let me see it, then," he had ordered._

 _"You can look at it yourself," Sherlock huffed indignantly._

 _John stood and walked to the hanging bags, opening the first one to find a black suit and a blue shirt._

 _"No, that one's mine," Sherlock had corrected._

 _"I like that shirt color," John complimented before redoing the zipper and moving to the second bag._

 _"Thank you."_

 _When John opened the second, he saw another black suit, but this one with a white shirt and a blue tie that seemed to match the color of Sherlock's shirt._

 _"Sherlock…does my tie match your shirt?" He decided the direct approach would be quickest._

 _Sherlock sighed again at John's lack of observational skills, "No," he drug out the vowel like he was again addressing a child, "My shirt is sapphire and your tie is cobalt. They are_ clearly _different."_

 _John unzipped the first bag again, comparing the two colors side-by-side, "No, Sherlock, they aren't."_

* * *

"I _told_ you they were the same color," John teases, fighting his own blush as he looks Sherlock in the eye reassuringly.

They've been through situations like this countless times before; it's not really a big deal anymore. However, they've learned over the years that they need to navigate them cautiously so that one of them doesn't end up hurt on accident. After all, there are worse things in the world than being mislabeled as a couple. Some lies that hurt more.

"They are _not_ the same color," Sherlock insists for the millionth time, "It's hardly my fault that idiots can't tell the difference between sapphire and cobalt," he finishes, gesturing to each garment as he says their color.

John rolls his eyes as Sherlock insults the other guests at the table without even thinking about it, "Close enough," he insists again, just as he did a few days ago when the argument originated.

"That's alright, dear," Nancy reaches a hand to Trixie's and pats it soothingly with a smile, "I also thought they were a couple after their behavior during the ceremony."

"What behavior?" John asks, honestly confused.

"You two flirting and giggling back there in your own little world," she smiles at John knowingly.

John merely sputters but is saved from coming up with a response - since he figures "We were sacrilegiously re-patroning the Saints in the windows" wouldn't really do - as Greg's brother stands and begins his speech.

Once the food is cleared and the speech given, the tables are pushed to the side and the dancing begins. Sherlock and John stand along the side merely observing the crowd as they sip their champagne. Once their glasses empty, Sherlock offers to grab them new ones and makes his way to the bar along another of the walls.

John is nodding his head slightly to the music as he glances around the crowd lazily, secretly trying to deduce couples (not that he'd ever tell Sherlock that). He's surprised to find a woman suddenly on his left, introducing herself.

"Hi, I'm Angela," the pretty, young blonde girl introduces herself with a stunning smile and an outstretched hand.

John smiles in return, offering his own hand in greeting, "John."

"I saw you standing over here all alone, and I just thought…" but she doesn't get any further as Sherlock returns and nonchalantly hands John his new glass of bubbly. John watches as her eyes take in the not-the-same-shade-of-blue-but-might-as-well-be compliments of his and Sherlock's outfits before she's stuttering out an apology, "Oh, I'm so sorry! I had no idea."

"No," John corrects calmly, "it's not…" _like that_ but he doesn't even have the chance to finish the statement before she's gone again. He turns back to Sherlock with a sigh and a _What're you gonna do?_ smile and shoulder shrug before taking a drink from the new glass.

"I'm sorry, that was poor timing on my part," Sherlock apologizes.

John dismisses the statement with a wave and a shake of his head, "It's fine."

"Is it?" Sherlock asks seriously, staring in to his eyes vulnerably.

"Yeah," he says honestly, "Of course," because it is. John has come to the conclusion that losing Sherlock - the multiple ways that he has in their past - was more painful than losing his traitorous, murdering wife. He doesn't want to try to struggle through finding a woman who will accept the dynamic between Sherlock and himself without trying to change it - he's too old for it _and_ it sounds utterly _exhausting_ \- so if this is the only way he'll get to keep Sherlock, it'll do. It's enough.

Just then another woman approaches the pair to talk to John.

"Hello," she smiles at John.

"Hello," he smiles in return.

"Hello," Sherlock says unenthusiastically before he can stop it escaping. He curses himself in his mind; sometimes he thinks he must be subconsciously attempting to botch John's chances with women to be able to keep him to himself.

The new woman draws the same conclusion about their misleadingly similar outfits and their relationship status. She excuses herself quickly and with a blush.

John snorts quietly and shakes his head, throwing the rest of the champagne back before placing the empty glass on a nearby table. He turns to a confused Sherlock, takes his mostly-empty glass from his hand, and places it next to his own before turning and silently offering the taller man his left hand.

"John?" Sherlock asks in true confusion. Surely he's not asking him to…

"If no women are going to dance with me because they think I'm with you, I might as well dance with who I can. Come on, then, _boyfriend_ ," he stresses with a mischievous smile as he finally takes Sherlock's right hand.

"You can't be serious," Sherlock deadpans, this not really being his type of dancing.

"Oh, but I am," he assures, then steps a little closer, "and you know what I think?" Sherlock shakes his head, "I think you dressed us in closely matching blues on purpose; you _wanted_ people to think it was the same shade and connect the two of us," Sherlock merely flushes slightly and moves to falsely negate the words, but John continues on before he can, "So you've gotten us in to this mess, and now you're going to have to dance us right back out of it."

Sherlock's confusion causes him to momentarily forget his unwillingness to dance, "Really, John, that makes absolutely no sense."

"So?" John asks while beaming proudly before pulling a deeply-sighing Sherlock Holmes feigning resistance towards the middle of the dancing crowd.

They sway in time to the music for two, three, five songs, the crowd slowly pushing them closer together. It's not indecent dancing as it may have been at a dance club, but it's close and they touch hands to limbs for support and their eyes linger as their smiles mirror the other.

They are lost within each other when the music slows. John looks uncertain now that a distinctly romantic song is their soundtrack, not wanting to push Sherlock in to anything but also not wanting to lose this closeness. Sherlock quells John's fears by offering his right hand in invitation with a confident smile, but his eyes show his trepidation. John alleviates Sherlock's fears by willingly grabbing his hand with a genuine smile.

As they dance in a slow circle, John pulls Sherlock flush to him so their chests are pressed together with John's chin resting on Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock inhales sharply as John whispers in his ear, "Now people will definitely talk," he quotes a conversation from a million years ago.

Sherlock recognizes it immediately and chuckles, "People do little else," he completes with a smile.

John makes the mistake of looking at the people around them and notices the mix of curious and pleased eyes staring at them. Fuck 'em. Let them stare; they're just jealous that John got to him first. He drops his head slightly so that his nose is now centimeters from the side of Sherlock's neck, inhaling his familiar, comforting scent as Sherlock's body shudders involuntarily. John closes his eyes to cherish the content feeling flowing through him.

"Actually," John starts on a whisper before placing some distance between them once more. They're still dancing, but now Sherlock is looking at him quizzically. He screws up every ounce of bravery he has ever possessed, "Would you mind?"

It's not a clear question, but Sherlock doesn't need him to clarify; he knows what he's asking. His only delay comes from the feeling of déjà vu he gets at the words. He's heard them before, in his Mind Palace. He has already spoken the answer.

"Not at all," he answers honestly.

John's face lights up with a smile made for a saint. They meet in the middle for a happy, chaste kiss. Nothing has ever felt this right.

When they part, John is still smiling as he says, "To be perfectly clear, I was asking you out."

"Obviously," Sherlock humors him with a small eye roll, but his ecstatic smile belies the move.

"Just making sure we were on the same page; contrary to popular belief, you're not _actually_ a mind reader."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock smiles before he grabs the back of John's head and brings their mouths together for a much less chaste kiss this time around.

John always thought – when he dared to imagine it – that the transition from friends to lovers would come with a ridiculously high cost of emotion and humility. If he had known it would be this easy, he would have given in _years_ ago.

* * *

 **A/N:** I really need to mention that John Lockwood is a real person. He's not a saint yet (according to my research), but just Blessed John Lockwood. Which, if you ask me, is even better imagery for TJLC anyway, especially considering this: Bl. John Lockwood (It means "Blessed" and the individual is in the process of Beautification and Canonization). So really, how was I to resist?

All of the saints listed are real, but their stories clearly are not. There are so many! I only made it through the P's (yes, I researched a complete listing of Catholic saints) before I had more than enough to be getting on with.

Anyway, I hope you waded through the fluffy ending alright and found a bit of enjoyment on the way.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts via comment or constructive criticism!

Follow me on Tumblr at goddess-of-the-night04 for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)


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